A Bitter Sweet Memory
by Swanandapirate
Summary: In the middle of the night, a random call disturbs Emma Swan's sleep. Quickly, she discovers that the call wasn't as random as she thought and that the caller was someone from long ago. But sometimes time doesn't heal the wound, nor does it take away the memory.
1. A Nightly Call

**A/N: I should totally not be writing a new story, not with two more unfinished ones lying around, but this idea has kind of been haunting me and I wanted to put it in words. I hope you like it and maybe review if you did.**

A shrill noise pierces the room. It penetrates the silence that had settled and brought calm. The sheets move with Emma's rustling. She turns and turns, wishing the sound to stop, every shift fruitless. When the realization that her pillow doesn't cut it as a silencer hits Emma, she grunts. Opening her eyes, Emma sees the pale beam of light her phone emits. Why would someone call her in the middle of the fucking night? Softly shaking to regain its use, her hand reaches out and takes her mobile off the night stand.

"Hello?" she says, the sleep being distinguished by her voice. And the irritation too.

She hadn't looked at the caller ID, her eyes instantly shutting themselves again as she felt the phone in her hand, so she has no idea who decided to wake her up. Emma rubs her eyes. It's an averse attempt to wake up. She doesn't want to get rid of the sleep, she wants to drown in it. To exploit the hours of rest she has to the fullest. However, if someone is calling her right now and she's picking up, devoting a few minutes to them, attentiveness is needed.

"Emma?" a male voice asks.

There is so much hesitance on the other side of the line that the man starts with uttering the first syllable and halts. He quickly starts over and says the name in its totality.

Emma doesn't think much of it, the sleep still clouding and controlling every thought.

"Uhuh, that's me." she simply replies.

No sounds comes out of her phone. Emma thinks that her caller must've fallen silent again. She is about to ask if he's still there when he speaks another.

"Sorry. I must've dialed the wrong number."

A yawn sneaks up on Emma. Her hand, half hidden in the sleeve of her red pajama top, comes to cover her mouth. The yawn causes Emma's eyes to dampen of tiredness. It's a good thing the conversation doesn't need to go on any further because Emma is convinced she would've fallen asleep in the midst of it.

"No problem." Emma says, her words partially enveloped in the sound her open mouth makes.

One press on the red button. She puts the phone back on the stand. Her body sinks back in the sheets and her hands rearrange her locks, maybe that way her hair won't be a mess that's impossible to untangle the morning. It's 3.54 am which means she has three more hours. Three more hours of sleep. After those she needs to wake up and get them both ready. Those three hours will be very much appreciated. She lies her head down and nuzzles into her pillow.

…

"See you this evening, kid." Emma smiles and ruffles Henry's brown locks.

Her child is already jumping excitedly at being reunited with his friends after the weekend. He nearly bombarded Emma at breakfast with stories of Avery's new dog and how he was planning on bringing pictures to school. Then came the big eyes, full of innocence while he asked permission to go to Avery's place and meet said pup. Emma could do nothing but accept with a smile and Henry attacked her with a hug instead.

Every time she thinks of Henry and the close friends he has, Emma senses the spread of a happy feeling. It starts around her heart, the swirl filling the beating organ. After a while the warmth surges upwards, intruding her thoughts. Conducting them to days long gone.

Good friends. They'll be defining for the rest of Henry's life.

After waiting until Henry has entered the school through its bright, blue doors, Emma starts walking back to the apartment. It's not far by foot and definitely faster than any car in the city traffic. Emma bares her wrist and her watch shows the time. She still has an hour before she is expected at the office.

Dark clouds are threatening the New York streets, so Emma fastens her pace to make it home before it starts pouring. The heels of her black shoes click hurriedly on the grey concrete. A first drop lands on her forehead and trickles its way down her nose. Another one falls. When the beads metamorphose into a real deluge of water, the gate of her apartment appears. She opens the door and runs upstairs. Her keys are thrown on the table and her coat is hung on the rack. The light the room usually wallows in, is hidden behind the stormy clouds, thus giving Emma no choice but to illuminate the light bulbs scattered across the room. She walks past the buckets where Henry's plants stand and takes a seat on one of the stools.

A yawn escapes. She really didn't get enough sleep last night. Wanting to finish that season of The Tudors was a bad idea, how ever gorgeous Henry Cavill might be. The sleep deprivation is just the toll she has to pay for it.

Emma rummages through the to-do list in her head. Mary Margaret is one of the bullet points. The date for her dinner party is still unconfirmed by Emma and it is getting closer. Her fingers quickly unlock her phone and tap the call symbol. If she recalls correctly, Mary Margaret called her recently, so she should be in in this list somewhere. Reading the names, Emma scrolls down. Her thumb stops and Emma holds the phone closer to her face and squints her eyes. It's the number that called her yesterday -or should she say today. There's something strange about it.

44\. What kind of number starts with 44? To her knowing, US numbers start with three digits, not just two. It can't be a US one. Emma criticizes herself under her breath. It doesn't really matter. The man said he had dialed the wrong number, that ends it and she should be notifying Mary Margaret if they have any plans or not. But the curiosity lingers.

After a thorough search Emma has discovered the 44 indicates a call from Great-Britain and her nodding head agrees with the conclusion. She had certainly recognized that there was something off with the way he spoke, the typical lilt when he said her name and when he said he called the wrong person, it just took until now to place it.

Half asleep Emma can be quite ignorant sometimes.

The mystery is solved. Now she knows where the strange call had come from. Not that it matters much. Emma does find a reason to grant him some forgiveness for the middle of the night part. Difference in time zones.

Her eyes go to her wrist. There are 40 minutes left before work starts. Great, that leaves time to just relax. Music. That's what she needs right now. Her finger trails along the row of CDs until she spots one she craves for.

The track starts playing and puts a smile on Emma's face. It's been ages since she listened to this, but this song, its melody and lyrics are so nostalgic. As the chords are being plucked on the recording, they simultaneously get struck with Emma.

It starts with a small hum but by the time the singing starts, Emma's voice sings along.

"Cuz it's a bittersweet…" Her hands mimic the drum. "...symphony this life."

Nodding her head to the tune, she floats to the fridge to get some orange juice. The glass fills with the liquid and Emma puts the cap back on the bottle when it's right about half full. She takes a sip and licks a drop off her lips.

Her thoughts drift back to the call this night. Apparently her brain has an abiding need to keep thinking of it. Why, Emma doesn't know. It wasn't an outstandingly strange call.

He called, she picked up, he asked if she was Emma, she said yes,-

Hold on. He asked if she was Emma.

If he rang the wrong number, how would he know that?

Emma closes her eyes to recall the conversation. To relive it.

Not what he said. No, she remembered that.

But the sound of his voice.

The high and lows in his speech.

The intonation.

The glass slips through her fingers and crashes on the ground. Shards split into even smaller fragments and blast over Emma's floor. Enlarging its territory, the juice colors the previously clear pieces orange.

Emma is rendered immobile for a second, her eyes watching the scene taking place on the ground, the CD continuing to play in the background.

She takes a deep breath through her nostrils and turns around. Behind her is the closet where Emma stores their cleaning supplies (or should she say her cleaning supplies because Henry's room is proof that he isn't very fond of cleaning). She flicks on the light and searches for the duster. Walking back to the disorder, Emma realizes that a bigger mess will only be made if she cleans the glass with the broom. Bending her knees, she squats over the scene and tentatively picks some of the bigger pieces with her fingers. They get discarded in the trash. Emma walks back for a second go when she notices a red droplet crossing, creating a pathway over her hand. She should better go rinse them. As the clear water runs and dominates the thin, red stream, Emma feels a sting. Not one the wound is giving her, but one the tears in her eyes are making her feel.

There is no doubt about who called her. It might have taken her a while to catch but she is absolutely certain of it. Why now? All of these years have passed. And with one phone call it is like they have not. Emma shuts her eyelids and a tear falls as she does.

She misses him, of course she misses him, but for a long time his absence has been a faint throbbing. A crack tucked away in a corner of her heart. It had been unbearable once, but the years had faded that away. Moments of happiness with Henry, with Mary Margaret and David had forced it to the background, new memories had coated the open wound. Emma had grown used to the pain, her body unresponsive to it. But it's still there. The small prick.

It has just been so long.


	2. To New Beginnings

**A/N: Hi guys! New chapter! Quickly a side note about the layout of this fic. All past chapters will be in italics and will be told out of Killian's (what, Killian? Big shock, right ;) ) PoV and all the present chapters will be Emma's. Hope you like it.**

 _20 years ago_

 _Liam was nervous, but tried to hide it. Killian knew his brother, though. The occasional tap of his foot on the carpet, the nervous rubbing of his hands, the way he snapped when Killian wanted to play with him, the short breaths he took. All signs betraying the worries in Liam's head. It was in his nature to worry and it was in Killian's to not. He was still young, the weight of the world didn't affect him._

 _Several times Killian had heard how important today was. It was no ordinary day. They were here for a reason. Today was going to define the rest of their lives._

" _Liam," Killian tried again, softly pulling at his sleeves. "I'm bored. I want to play."_

" _Little brother, I am supposed to talk to Ingrid in five minutes. I cannot play now," he stressed._

 _It made Liam seem older than he was, it made him seem like an adult but he wasn't yet. He was only seventeen. Protecting Killian against the outsiders, people who were not them others, had put a ban the foolishness children have. His brother was responsible for the both of them and it had taken away his youth._

 _Killian pouted his lips and stormed off, his quick feet stomping on the carpeted floor._

" _I'm nine, I'm not little anymore!"_

 _He didn't need Liam, he was big enough to play by himself. Knowing the way by heart, Killian drifted through the halls. Ingrid's office had a play corner, one decorated with any toy a child could wish for. It was like a miniature heaven to Killian._

 _Back in the group home they only had three puzzles they had to share. All of them missed several pieces; Elmo didn't even have a left eye. The three were dull and boring, after making them once, the fun was gone, but this… This room, these toys. This made him happy._

 _The first time he set foot in here, the bright walls and colorful chairs immediately attracted him. Killian released his grip on Liam's hand, one he usually held with everything he got, letting his brother shield him from the bad. His touch hesitantly traced the toys. It was a trap. A tool of distraction. Why be sad about not having parents when there were piles and piles of toys here?_

 _Ingrid was nice, she smiled a lot. Her voice was calm with a soft tone. Not as soft as Killian remembered their mother's voice, but kind nevertheless. Perfect for a social worker. She could tell the worst news and still soothe you as if listening to a lullaby, drifting on the edge of sleep._

 _There was a girl in the room when he reached it. Her back was directed towards Killian as she played with one of the toys. It wasn't unusual for other children to be here, but never had he been alone with someone else. Quietly, he walked towards the big, brown rack standing against one of the yellow walls. His eyes skimmed along the various puzzles and bouncy balls and Lego but couldn't find the toy he picked every time._

 _The girl was still playing, he saw when he looked back at her. Her hair was blonde. It acted as a hiding place, her face concealed by the long tresses. She had to be around Killian's age._

" _You are not taking this girl, because we are rescuing her!"_

 _Her voice mimicked the chaos of guns and explosions while her hand lifted one of the Ninja Turtles off the wooden table._

" _Sorry boys, but the only one who saves me is me," she said._

 _It was said with a higher pitch than her previous sentence; it sounded less grumbled and more like Killian would expect the girl to talk. More battle noises followed and Killian approached her. He wanted them too._

" _Hello," he greeted her._

 _The girl startled, her body automatically shying away from him. It was difficult to tell if her wide-blown eyes were green or blue, but they were surrounded by thick eyelashes and they were pretty._

 _She protectively cradled the action figures against her checkered shirt._

" _You are not going to try and steal them, are you?" she asked, eying him._

 _Killian shook his dark locks. He recognized the behavior, being afraid to lose the thing you have. To an older child, a bigger child or just a stronger one. If you didn't hold onto toys or food, you didn't get any. Killian had Liam to protect him, but not everyone was so fortunate._

" _I'm not a pirate or anything," he answered._

" _Good."_

 _He got one of the green creatures pushed his way in an invitation. The turtle had a purple bandana. Killian smiled; the girl had given him his favorite: Donatello._

" _Thank you."_

 _The darker hairs of her eyebrows got pulled together as she frowned._

" _It's funny how you talk." the blonde told him._

 _Killian felt a bit offended. Sure, his accent stood out between the American ones with their strong r's and their pants, but he wouldn't call it funny._

" _It's not!" he objected._

 _There was a streak of determination to her. It was visible in the way she stood and spoke and even though she was still young, her strong mind was very visible. Vigorously nodding her head, she insisted._

" _It is!"_

" _I'm not from here," Killian explained. "I'm from England."_

 _She looked impressed with her eyebrows high and her mouth slightly pushed forward._

" _Cool."_

 _Her gaze shifted to the figurines and collected one back in her hand. She molded her voice back to the low one she used before._

" _Come on, Donatello. We have a city to save."_

" _Do we have to?" Killian questioned, having embraced his role completely. "I would rather eat some pizza."_

 _She laughed at that. A wonderful sound finding its way through her open lips and eliciting a grin on Killian's face too._

 _They were not in the play corner anymore, they were not in Ingrid's office anymore. They were in the place their minds transported them to. Bright colors of gemstones and clothes in Agrabah or maybe crazy creatures in Wonderland. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in Oz? Why not? They matched the Wicked Witch._

 _It was up to them. It felt amazing to control it all in a life where a lot of the decisions were not theirs to take. Of course it wasn't real but that didn't stop it from feeling like an escape. A vacation to wherever they wanted to go._

 _Searching a bit more comfort, they let their small bodies sag to the ground. Along the floor, their legs glid until they were both seated next to each other. The toys stood back in their original spot; it was more than enough escaping for one day._

" _If you're here, does that mean that you don't have any parents either?" she asked._

" _No, I don't." A breath served as a pause. He didn't know the girl next to him for long, didn't even know her name. And still he felt a connection. He recognized some traits of his in her. That was why he told her more. "My mother died and my father just left us one day."_

" _Oh. I'm sorry." she said, her look full of empathy. "My parents did that too, you know. Just left me when I was still a baby. It's not fun."_

" _It isn't." Killian agreed._

 _Their sighs came synchronically. It was tiring dragging a painful past along, day in, day out._

 _A steady thumping on the floor announced a new presence and it was followed by lighter clicks on the ground. The girl and he both angled their heads towards the direction of the drumming. Liam stepped into the playing room with Ingrid walking next to him. The stress had been removed from his brother's body and mind. There was a smile on his face which Killian hadn't witnessed since last week. It was good. They were going to be all right._

" _I'll stop by every week for some time," Ingrid told Liam. "As soon as I'm assured you will do alright, those weekly visits will become monthly ones. Congratulations, Liam." Her pale hand divided the distance between them. "You are now officially out of the foster system."_

 _Liam reached for the social worker's hand and jovially shook it._

" _Thank you so much, Ingrid."_

 _A short gesture of the head showed them that it was her pleasure and finally the both of them aimed their attention on the children sitting on the ground. Liam beamed at him and Killian smiled back._

" _Emma, dear," Ingrid said, revealing the girl's name to Killian. "It's your turn."_

 _Emma-because that was how she was called- got up from the floor, from next to him and put her hand in Ingrid's larger one. Before they completely left the room, she looked back at him with those eyes of hers and waved._

 _Killian loved drawing; he could even proudly say that he was good at it. For a nine-year old at least. There was one problem: all of the pretty colors always disappeared in the group home. A new batch of luxuriously colored markers and pencils would arrive and the next day only the greys and black were left. Killian was resourceful and still managed to create art with those. But Emma's eyes and her hair, they deserved more than bland grey. They deserved to be as beautiful on paper as they were in real life._

…

 _It was a small apartment they lived in; small and cramped but also cozy and warm. A hundred times better than the group homes they were in. They were lucky Ingrid could find a cheap apartment in her hometown. Storybrooke was exactly like Liam and Killian's flat. It was home._

 _Desperately needing to earn money, Liam worked at the harbor all summer. Granny, the local diner keeper and good Samaritan, was so kind to propose a solution for Killian sitting at home alone. She would keep and eye on Killian while Liam went working._

 _Killian didn't mind, he adored Granny and the diner. When there weren't many customers, she would hand him a coin to pick a song in the jukebox or she'd share her secret recipes. Killian was all ears for those._

 _The door swung open and a new stream of customers seeped into the diner. Among them was a robust man. His black hair was streaked with age. Next to him a brunette woman walked, her face slightly younger. There was a child trailing behind them. Blonde hair that contrasted that of the adults before her. Bright eyes that worked against the dimness of the man and woman. The girl from Ingrid's office. Emma._

 _Her eyes were sparkling over the decor of the diner, taking in every detail and enjoying it while doing so. She stumbled upon Killian and temporarily halted her sweep. She said something to the man and woman and then made her way towards Killian._

 _Her pink dress swayed with every step she took and Killian couldn't help but notice how it didn't seem like her to wear something like that._

" _Hi."_

 _She smiled._

" _Hello," Killian responded. "Ingrid found you a place in Storybrooke, too?"_

" _She did. With them." With a grimace, Emma motioned towards the couple occupying one of Granny's booths. "I don't think it's going to last for long. Maybe long enough for me to go to school and force Ingrid to find another family close by."_

" _I hope you do," Killian said. He completely meant it. Emma's part in Killian's life had not been long role, but he already hoped she wouldn't disappear out of it._

" _Emma! Come back here!" the lady with the brown hair screeched._

 _Emma let her shoulders down in despair and started to make her way back to the booth._

" _Wait, I don't even know your name," Emma suddenly realized._

" _It's Killian." He curled the corners of his lips. "Killian Jones."_

" _I'm Emma, Emma Sw-" Her nose scrunched in disgust. "Emma Bailey for now but call me Emma Swan."_

" _Swan, it is."_

" _Emma!" The voice demanded her presence right away and Emma bolted to the table._

" _Bye, Killian," she exclaimed._

 _Killian felt a presence behind him and turned around to see Granny with a grin that could only be compared with that of a wolf._

" _Who is she?" the elderly lady asked._

" _That's Emma," Killian answered._

 _One of her grey brows went up._

" _Do you like her?"_

" _Ew, no." Killian felt offended by the suggestion. "Girls are stupid," he proclaimed._

" _Sure, they are." Granny said unconvinced while stirring in the batch of batter._

 _Girls may be stupid, but Emma Swan most definitely wasn't._

 **I've discovered that I'm pretty much addicted to reviews. So, if you'd please consider helping me out, it would be very much appreciated**


	3. The Distance Between Us

**A/N: Hi, my sincerest apologies for the three months that have passed without an update. I keep repeating it everywhere but I'm just really busy with university and I can barely find time to do things that are not for school. Here's a new chapter, hope you like it.**

The water keeps running for an extensive time, the small, red dot long vanished with the clear cascade. Emma only shuts the metal tap when it feels like she's not about to break down any moment. But even when the imminent threat is vanquished, she is still shaking; her hands are softly quivering and her legs feel unsteady. It takes time to recover from the shock that reverberated through her body.

One phone call, one that didn't even last longer twenty seconds, has turned her entire world upside down. Or he has, yet again.

Mindlessly, Emma resumes her cleaning. In a more careful manner this time, she gathers the remaining fragments of glass, disposes of them and cleans until the orange stain has completely been absorbed by the mop and there is no trace left of the accident on the floor.

Her radio makes a quiet click, indicating that a new song will start to play and Emma runs towards it, hitting the off button a bit too forcefully. Why did she even choose this CD? Somehow the song that carries the most memories of him, a song she hasn't even heard in her time apart from him, somehow she picked the CD containing that song to listen to. That cannot be a coincidence. It must have been her subconscious already knowing who the mystery caller was before her brain caught on. A little warning would have been nice, though.

Her eyelids shut. Emma covers her face with her hands, the pressure creating colored spots on the dark canvas. Every breath she takes returns as a sigh.

Graham is expecting her in about ten minutes for work but Emma just can't seem to muster the desire to go or get rid of the dread she feels. It has been ages since she took a sick day and lately she has been working a lot of extra hours. She deserves a day to convalesce.

Picking up her phone, she dials her boss' number. The monotonous beep greets her as she waits for someone to respond.

"Graham Humbert," he answers.

Emma runs her fingers through her locks, getting rid off some small knots.

"Hey, Graham. It's Emma. I won't be able to come into work today, I'm feeling a bit under the weather."

It is not like she's lying. She is not feeling one hundred percent, she's not even feeling optimal. The problem simply lies with her emotional health instead of her physical one.

"Sorry for the late notice," Emma apologizes.

"Don't worry about it, Emma," her boss reassures her in the accent Emma has grown fond of over the time they have worked alongside one another. "August and I can handle it alone for today. Just let me know if you'll come in tomorrow tonight, alright?"

"I definitely will, Graham. Thank you."

"It's only logical that if you're feeling unwell, you get to stay home. Take care of yourself and get well soon!" he wishes her.

Moments like these Emma realizes how lucky she actually is with her life. Her apartment, Henry, the friends she has, her job and her colleagues. When she was a child, she could never have imagined it turning out this good. Nor could she during the excruciating wait in that school bathroom, as the previously blank spot on the stick now bore a blue plus.

Thinking becomes a bit easier when there is no rush, when that hurry and commitment of getting to work on time have disappeared out of the jumble inside Emma's head. Although the prospect of sitting at home by herself and her only company the thoughts don't particularly gratify Emma either.

So, she does something she should have done ages ago; she calls her best friend.

"Emma, finally!" Mary Margaret greets her. "Have you decided which date fits the best for you?"

Right, the dinner and its still unestablished date.

"I haven't yet," Emma confesses, her foot nervously tapping on the floor. "Mary Margaret, are you at home?"

"I am." Mary Margaret sounds a bit confused by her question and the sudden shift of subject.

"Could I come by? Something happened."

She is not able to specify what or who the something is, she doesn't want to. His name hasn't fallen from her lips yet. It is a conscious decision to not utter those three syllables, because she doesn't know what catastrophe might ensue if, after avoiding the name for ten years, she does. This is not the place for it anyway. It should be in the presence of someone else, in the vicinity of her friend's comforting smile and hugs. Awaiting the answer, Emma bites her lip.

"Of course, Emma."

As soon as the agreement reaches her ears, she is mobilized. The phone clenched between her shoulder and ear, Emma forms a quick ending of the call and glances over to her windows. The sky has not cleared yet, the clouds remain dark with rain trickling out of them. She moves in her apartment, to the closet to grab her umbrella, back to the living room to grab her purse, to the hall to find a pair of waterproof shoes. She is the whirlwind of the outside storm.

Decelerating, her feet slip into the pair of boots and her arms slide into the raincoat. Emma shuts the door and locks it up after her as if she was locking all memories of him behind her closed door.

As if, because in truth she carries the memories with her everywhere she goes.

Due to the water pouring down, there really isn't any chance she's going to walk the distance separating them. The drive to the loft Emma's best friend and Emma's best friend's husband/Emma's friend own is not longer than ten minutes. It's the search of a parking spot that takes forever. Emma eventually settles for a spot a couple of blocks over, easing the Bug into the white rectangle. She braces herself for the downpour and locks the car in an unprecedented speed. With the drops thumping down on her hood, Emma runs towards the second-floor loft.

Shaking because of the cold and to get rid of some of the water, Emma rings the doorbell. The first face she sees is that of baby Leo, widely smiling at the sight of his godmother. A smile in response finds its way to Emma's face. Leo is held by his mother, who welcomes her inside their home.

"The weather's terrible, isn't it?" Mary Margaret comments as she sets her son down in his playpen.

Emma hums her answer and hangs up her soaked coat. On her way towards Mary Margaret she halts by her babbling godchild, running her hand affectionately across his head. The room smells great, it smells like cinnamon and chocolate, her favorite combination.

There is a small thud when two mugs of steaming hot chocolate are set on the table.

"When you called saying you would come over, I thought it the perfect opportunity to make some hot chocolate." The corners of her lips curl into a perfect smile. A match for everything else in the perfect life her friend has built.

"Thank you." Emma's hands reach for the blue cup. There's a white blob on top of it and a dusting of the brown spice colors the whipped cream.

"I can't really hide the fact that I'm surprised" Mary Margaret admits, grabbing her own cup and settling in the chair opposite of the one Emma chose. "I thought you were working today."

"I took a sick day," Emma explains before taking a tentative sip of the drink, checking whether or not the temperature has dropped enough to not burn her tongue.

Mary Margaret follows her lead but keeps her green eyes trained on Emma. Emma senses the question in the gesture. Wrapping her cold hands around the warm cup, she takes a deep breath.

"I got a call this night," she starts, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was short and vague and I didn't really think anything about it. Until this morning when I realized who the caller was."

The pause that follows isn't one to create suspense, to spark Mary Margaret's curiosity and make her guess who the caller was. It is not a cruel game of 'I have the answer and you don't'. The pause that follows gives Emma the time to take a breath, granting her some hesitance before dropping the bomb that will most likely stun Mary Margaret. Even if her shock is only half of what Emma experienced, it will stay considerable.

"Who was the caller?" she asks, still immersed in obliviousness.

"Killian."

And there it is. Killian. There is no need to specify which Killian it is because how many Killians are there in the world; how many of those played such a vital part in Emma's years of adolescence; how many of those had Mary Margaret known as well.

The dark, thin eyebrows crease as Mary Margaret leans closer. Her lips spread in surprise. She blinks a couple of times, gathering her thoughts.

"You're sure it's him?" The disbelief is expressed as doubt towards Emma.

Hearing the reluctance slightly stings, but he doesn't mind, she even understands. It sounds crazy, so extremely far-fetched and yet, it was Killian.

The edges of Emma's nails scratch over the table, sculpting little, curved lines in the light wood, small exhibits of her agony.

"Mary Margaret, I'm positive. It was Killian," she confirms.

There are quiet cries of displeasure coming from the box behind Emma and Mary Margaret stands up with an apologetic smile and in search of the reason her son is unhappy. Turning on her chair, Emma follows the brunette with her eyes. Apparently, Leo simply wants to be in his mother's arms, because as soon as she lifts the baby and holds him close, they die down. The both of them go sit down again.

"But why?" The conversation is resumed in a softer tone, the women aware of the almost dozing child. "Why would he call after years of silence?"

There are a couple of scenarios that had already crossed her mind but none of them seemed to reassure Emma. Every possibility her mind conjured up contained a grim component, a bleak situation Killian was in. He could be dying, perhaps he wanted no unfinished business and the situation between the two of them is most definitely an unresolved issue. The thought that he would only call her on the verge of death being the first to come to mind, mirrors how badly she screwed everything up.

"That's the million-dollar question," Emma sighs before savoring another taste of the hot chocolate.

Mary Margaret's fingers tenderly comb through Leo's short blond strands.

"He didn't tell you?" she inquires.

"No." Emma shakes her long strands. "He asked if I was Emma and then told me he had entered the wrong number."

Which was quite an obvious lie. It's strange Killian thought he could get away with that. It doesn't even make sense.

"Call him back."

The statement catches Emma's attention again and causes her to frown in the direction of her best friend. It would not make sense to call him back, either.

"What?" Emma temporarily forgets the hushed volume, her shout of shock stirring little Leo. He isn't too troubled, though because he does not completely wake. Emma feels relieved.

"You call him back," Mary Margaret repeats. "That will take away any remaining doubt and maybe even answer why he called."

It possibly does make sense to call him back, but that does not equate with Emma having to actually do it. Killian and she have history. Of all people, Mary Margaret should know that.

"After what I did to him?" Emma reminds her of that history.

"You weren't the only one to blame and you were seventeen, Emma. He called you first. Maybe he's ready to mend the tear. Are you?"

"I've been ready for years," is her truthful answer.

 **I'm evil for stopping here, I know. One day (hopefully not months from now) you'll discover if Emma does call, and whether or not Killian picks up. First, we get some more Killian flashbacks in the next chapter. Thank you for enduring my constant suspense and lack of updates.**


End file.
